


Decorum

by muckraker (grendelity)



Category: Peacemaker Kurogane
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-18
Updated: 2008-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grendelity/pseuds/muckraker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Souji, promises, and lies. Things fall apart. Spoilers for Souji in general, spoilers for Suzu past Shinsengumi Imon Peacemaker v.5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decorum

On the days when it was hot and drowsy and windless, Soujirou cleaned. The sky was so blue that it hurt, and he swept like he was fighting a battle, watching the stones of the courtyard like they might move if he didn’t. Stray blades of dead grass were caught in his sandals and there was dust in his hair, but he fought on, keeping a stiff back to the steps behind him.

“Don’t you have any friends, brat?”

Soujirou didn’t falter. He was watching his feet, carefully stepping out of the way of the broom, as he replied, “Hijikata-san doesn’t have any friends, either, if he’s watching a brat sweep.”

There was a snort from behind him, and Soujirou shot a glance over his shoulder. Hijikata was lounging on the steps, smoking something that had an odd, cloying scent that made Soujirou want to sneeze. He looked at Hijikata and wrinkled his nose, and Hijikata blew a cloud of smoke at him, his eyes half-lidded. _What are you looking at? _Soujirou lifted his nose, taking a particularly vicious swipe at the flagstones. Dust rose around his ankles again, mixing with the traces of fragrant smoke, and this time Soujirou did sneeze, clutching the broom as he stumbled with the force of it.

Hijikata gave a coughing laugh at him, choking on smoke, and he managed something like, “sounds like a _kitten,_” and Soujirou glared at him indignantly, giving his nose a hasty swipe of his sleeve. He turned on his heel and resumed his furious sweeping. “Don’t you live somewhere?” he said. He was moving further away from the steps, moving with the dirt, and so he said it loud enough to know he was being rude.

“I’ll leave when Kat-chan does,” Hijikata called, and Soujirou could hear the smirking edge to his voice. Soujirou didn’t answer, and there was a calculated silence, and then, “You clean like an old man, _Souji. _If you don’t play with other brats, you’ll never learn anything.”

He stopped and gave Hijikata a suspicious look. “Learn what?” Hijikata took another drag on his pipe and lifted his free hand, his little finger crooked. Soujirou scowled. “You really are a lecher. I’m too young for women.”

Hijikata’s mouth dropped open. “For _what? _No, you--you, c’mere, Souji, c’mere.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“_Sou_ji, get over here.” He was making an exaggerated _come here _gesture with one hand, and with the other, he tapped the ash out of his pipe. Soujirou watched him skeptically, and when Hijikata glared at him, he started forward, his steps reluctant. He was still holding the broom, and when he got close enough, Hijikata tried to pull it out of his hands. There was a silent, stubborn tug-of-war, and then Hijikata sighed and made Souji sit on the steps next to him, the broom askew on Soujirou’s knees.

Hijikata held up his hand again. “Okay, look, _this,_” he straightened his little finger, “is a woman. _This,_” he crooked his finger again and grabbed Soujirou’s wrist before he could jerk it away, and he linked their little fingers, “is for making promises.” He gave Soujirou a critical look, and then he shook his head and let go of Soujirou’s wrist. “All kids know that.”

Soujirou gave their fingers a doubtful look. “That’s it?”

“You say a rhyme, or something. ‘If I lie, I will swallow a thousand needles.’” He shook his head again and gave a little desultory shrug. “Something.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Soujirou frowned and peeered up at Hijikata. “What’re we promising?” This close, the scent of the smoke clung to the stone of the steps, to Hijikata’s clothes, his hand where it touched Soujirou’s. The head of the broom was almost in Soujirou’s lap, and dust stirred every time he moved.

Hijikata eyed him back and raised an eyebrow. “Whatever. You can promise anything.”

“Oh,” Soujirou said, looking down at their hands. His nose itched, the smoke and the dust catching in the back of his throat, and he brought his sleeve up to cover his nose and thought about what he would promise. Hijikata shook him off and laughed at him and called him a baby because was he actually _crying _and said that it made him want to give Soujirou a sword instead of a broom because _then _he’d really be crying, and Soujirou sneezed on him anyway and (accidentally) whacked Hijikata’s long legs with his broomstick and in the end of it all, he never actually said thank you.

* * *

A cry to arms and a rumble of something like thunder woke Souji at dawn. He was alone in his room, and the air was thin and winter-cold, seeping in the cracks around the doors and the shuttered windows like mist or water. He laid awake and listened to voices as they swelled into a happy volume that made him ache a little, and when heavy footsteps began stomping past the doors to his room, he sat up--he stood, actually, and started for the doors like he thought he was going somewhere, and then he just put his back against wall, pressing his spine straight against its edge, and he slid down to the cold floor and drew his knees his chest, trying to feel serene about it, and watched vague shadows sliding past him and away.

He followed their movement, tracing their paths down the porch, and listened for the members of his squad, holding his breath to hear their faint voices better. He leaned back against the wall and tucked his toes into his yukata against the morning. He pulled his hair over his shoulder and threaded his fingers through its tangles, imagining the squads in the main courtyard of the compound, ready for battle and all those men, itching for a fight, and someone else leading the first squad. He closed his eyes and could feel the weight of a sword in his hands, the tightness of armor at his wrists.

Someone stumbled outside and there was laughter and a rueful curse, and Souji opened his eyes again to the semi-darkness of the room and his haori hanging on the wall over his katana in its stand. He realized he was knotting his fingers in his hair and gave a little self-deprecating laugh that caught in his throat, and as he tried to smother the sound--like a choking animal or a dying old man’s hack--the door slid open.

He looked up over his hand and caught a glimpse of bright grey morning sky and blue haori filing by, katana and armor, and then he curled over his knees and let the cough wrack his body. The door closed quickly, and there was darkness around him again, a chill moving over his neck. After the fit passed, he pressed his forehead to his knees and took one deep, clear breath and swallowed. As he raised his head, he glanced at his (clean) sleeve and gave a sigh of relief, and then he tucked his hair back and looked up.

“Good morning, Tetsu-kun,” he said softly, inclining his head. His voice was weak and hoarse, and he gave an experimental clearing of his throat, taking another deep breath.

Tetsu turned away from the door, a guilty look on his face, like he was trying to pretend that cough hadn’t happened. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, and then he sat, folding his long legs under him. He planted his hands on his knees, squared his shoulders, and said, “Good morning, Okita-san, you should be in bed,” rushing it all out in one breath. He winced at the sound of the words and got a doubtful cant to his eyebrows. For just an instant, he looked as young as he was, or as old as he should have been, and then he shifted, and the shadows were dark around his eyes once more.

Souji blinked at him innocently, and then he clasped his arms around his knees and made his eyes big. “Do I have to?” he said, giving a little pout. Tetsu squirmed a little and gave Souji a sort of despairing look, and Souji dropped his shoulders and sighed, sitting back. “That’s a dirty trick. He knows I can’t do that to you.” He pushed himself to his feet and went over to sit in his pile of blankets, tucking them around his feet. He laced his fingers mock-obediently and looked to Tetsu again. “Aren’t you supposed to have some of that awful tea?”

Tetsu winced again. “The, um, the Vice-Commander is making it now.”

“Ah, tricky,” Souji sighed. “What a trap you have set.” Souji could see Tetsu’s eyes moving over his face, reading the shadows of sickness there, and he had this horrible worried look on his face that made Souji want to pinch him or chide him and say _I’m not a corpse yet, Tetsu-kun_. It made him want to laugh because it made him feel like an old _aunt, _but he didn’t think Tetsu would find it all that funny. When the silence stretched on, Souji forced himself to smile and said, “Oh, Tetsu-kun. You’re still such a puppy.” When Tetsu’s mouth dropped open, gaping like a fish, Souji couldn’t help it and gave a little choking laugh, covering his mouth. “Don’t make me,” he forced out between laughter and coughing. “We’ll both be in trouble if Hijikata-san were to come in now.”

He saw Tetsu’s face relax into a smile that echoed his little-boy grin, and he looked a little less lean and tired. “Yeah.” And then the smile slid off his face as he looked at his knees, his fingers twisting in his hakama. Souji recovered his breath, and there was another long moment of silence as feet finished stomping past the door. Tetsu bit his lip, and then raised his face, tight lines of worry stretching between his eyebrows. “We’re--we’re leaving today,” he said, the words falling out in a clumsy rush.

Souji tried not to smile. “I know.”

“No, I mean...” Tetsu took a breath and set his jaw. “I wish you were coming with us.”

“You really are trying to get me in trouble, Tetsu-kun. Can you imagine what Hijikata-san would say?”

Tetsu looked frustrated. “Okita-san--”

“No, Tetsu-kun,” Souji said gently. “No. I have my own place to go. I’d be in trouble with Matsumoto-sensei, too. Yamazaki-kun threatened to sit on me, you know.”

Tetsu didn’t smile again. He dropped his gaze to his knees and chewed on his lip. Finally, he said quietly, “Yeah.” He shifted a littled and scratched at the scar stretching over his cheek, like it itched. Souji watched him and remembered a baby-faced boy who used to be so loud, who ran everywhere and teased the pigs, and he smiled and sighed, resting his cheek in his hand. Tetsu’s swords were on the floor behind him, almost lost in the shadows and Tetsu’s uniform, and Souji felt a little swell of something like pride, spreading and warm in his aching chest.

“Hey, Tetsu-kun,” he said. “Will you do something for me?”

Tetsu looked up. “Yeah?”

Souji settled forward, clasping his feet where they were bundled into the blankets. “It’s a big job, you know. I’d never, ever ask you, except you’re going to Fushimi, and I’m not.” He saw a guarded look go up on Tetsu’s face, and he gave a conspiratorial smile, cocking his head to the side. “Take care of Hijikata-san for me,” he said softly. The look faded from Tetsu’s face, melting off like his smile had, and his shoulders relaxed and curved inward, making him look smaller and younger. He gave Souji that worried look again, thinning his lips, and Souji ignored it, tucking his hair behind his ear. He kept eye-contact, nodding in encouragement. “You’ll have to remind the Vice-Commander to sleep,” he said, “because he actually forgets. And tell him not to smoke so much. Tell him he has too many lines on his face.” He stopped, taking a deep breath, and he felt the little hoarse catch in his throat. “Drink sake with him,” he went on, quieter, moving his gaze to the blankets, “and don’t let him blame himself for everything.” He thought for a moment, furrowing his brow, and then he gave a little nod. “Please do this job for me, Tetsunosuke-kun,” he said, bowing over his crossed legs, his hair spilling over his shoulder.

When he straightened, Tetsu was staring at him, his mouth twisting, and he said, “Okita-san...” He swallowed and his shoulders sagged. “You--the Vice-Commander won’t--he won’t listen to me, Okita-san.” He averted his eyes and looked at the floor. “He’ll only--he listens to you. It’s your job to tell him those things, and...and....” He looked up again, his face so confused, and he finished helplessly, “You’re supposed to do that job.”

Souji gave a little nod, watching Tetsu’s worried face, and said quietly, “Please, Tetsu-kun.” Tetsu looked sick, a bit like he couldn’t breathe, and he shut his eyes tight and shook his head mutely. Souji drew a deep, aching breath and bowed deeply again, folding over his legs and pressing his hands to the blankets. “Please,” he breathed. He stayed there a long time, his eyes closed, and finally, he heard Tetsu give a shaky sigh, and he straightened.

Tetsu looked at his face a long time, his eyes pleading, and then he swallowed again and shifted to face Souji with his whole body. He dropped his gaze to the floor about halfway between them, his brow knit. “I will--I will, Okita-san.” He gave a jerky bow over his knees. “And please...be careful on your way to Edo.” He faltered, and then he spoke slowly, careful with his words. “With everything that’s happened, we have a lot of enemies. And you have a job, too.” He looked up through his bangs and bit his lip. “You have to take care of yourself, too. Because--because the Vice-Commander will be upset if you don’t.” He ducked his head and finished, “Please,” his voice muffled.

Souji breathed a little laugh and nodded. “I will.” Tetsu sat back, looking at the floor, and Souji said, “And you, Tetsu-kun.”

“What?” He raised his eyes, and Souji gave another little nod.

“Come back alive, Tetsu-kun,” he said softly. “Be sure to survive this battle.” Tetsu nodded, chewing at his lip, and he rubbed absently at the scar on his face again as he looked to the covered window. The thin light at its edges fell over his cheeks, and Souji said, “And Tetsu-kun, I didn’t mean it.” Tetsu looked back at him in surprise, that desperate, sad look creeping back into his eyes, and Souji smiled. “What I said earlier. I don’t think you’re a puppy.” He laced his fingers in his lap and nodded matter-of-factly. “You’ve grown up, and we’re all proud of you. Even Hijikata-san,” he whispered playfully, “so don’t believe him if he denies it.”

He sat back, smiling as he brushed his fingers through his hair, but Tetsu was still giving him that look. Tetsu shifted uncomfortably, opening and closing his mouth, and Souji’s smile faded. Finally, Tetsu took a deep breath, straightening his spine and looking Souji in the eyes. “Okita-san--for, um. For helping me all this time and teaching me, sparring with me, and talking to me, for...for saving my life, back then....” He trailed off, looking as though he’d forgotten what he was saying, and Souji looked steadily back at him. There was a long moment of silence, and Tetsu shut his eyes, looking pained. “For everything--” he bowed deeply, his hands clutching at his knees and his hair falling over the floor, “thank you.”

Souji’s eyes followed the line of Tetsu’s haori over the floor, up the strong edge of his spine and the shock of his hair, red against white against blue, and he reached out. His fingers were pale and thin in the semi-darkness and he faltered, closing his hand, and he pulled back, tucking his hands into folds of blanket. He closed his eyes and bowed back, his own spine fragile and tired.

* * *

After he had moved from the hospital and saw his sister and she hugged him and cried (and he pretended he didn’t know why), he heard very little news about his friends. His brother-in-law got involved with the military, then, and after Mitsu and her family moved to Shonai and left him in the Edo house alone, they began to visit.

Saito was first, trailing curiously from one end of the house to the next, leaving Souji to sit in his room with a pot of tea and giving him news when he was in range and wouldn’t make Souji strain his throat to be heard. There had been a lost battle, Tokugawa forces pushed back, he said. He said it in his Saito-way, so quiet and matter-of-fact. He didn’t say that anyone had died. He didn’t say that anyone was losing hope. He left, adding that he would return before the leaves fell, and it was only later that Souji heard from the old houseservant that Susumu Yamazaki had drowned.

Kondo was next, smiling and telling Souji that things looked better, that the Shinsengumi was the only thing that could help the country now anyway. He told Souji that he was going to inherit the Shieikan dojo back home in Tama, that it was really official now, and he’d be installed as the fifth master of the Tennen Rishin style. Souji smiled and said he was so happy, really, and he asked how Nakagura and Harada were. Kondo said they were all about to head out again together, just like old times, and he would give them Souji’s best. He said that when he was better, Souji should come join them.

That was when Souji knew that Kondo was lying, and he wondered how everyone had scattered, wondered what the breaking point had been.

Hijikata came unannounced on a spring afternoon, looking like a rich, royal foreigner in his Western clothes and his hair so short, and Souji stared at him and gasped his name. Hijikata shifted uncomfortably, looking down at Souji where he sat on the porch, and he asked gruffly had he been taking any medicine lately, because it looked like that old servant was failing the Okita household. And then he called for some tea and sat down right there on the porch and dumped an envelope of something into the teacup and held it out to Souji, glaring.

After he took one gagging sip and discreetly splashed some of the tea onto the plants below the porch, Souji asked, “Is Tetsu-kun--?”

“Still himself,” Hijikata said, giving a little snort. “A brat’s a brat. He stayed behind.” He sat with his long legs in a sprawl, studying the blossoms overhead, and his black coat fell open around him. Its lining was scarlet like the Shinsengumi’s old flag. “He’s so spoiled.”

“Ah, Hijikata-san, still so mean.” Souji sat back on his hands and lifted his face to the budding trees. “That’s not true at all. You should be kinder to Tetsu-kun.” He wondered if Tetsu had any more scars on his face, and how hard he had cried over Yamazaki. He wondered if Tetsu was still young enough to grieve over war. He looked at Hijikata and the lines of exhaustion and worry on his face, and wondered if Tetsu remembered his promise.

“We’re going to Konodai in Shimousa,” Hijikata said suddenly, still looking away. A warm breeze lifted his hair around his face, and the leaves overhead cast shadows that made him look as if he hadn’t slept for weeks.

“Everyone is?” Souji said, his voice soft.

Hijikata nodded to the trees, his eyebrows knit. “When you’re well, you should come join us.”

He looked at Souji then, and Souji could see the lie written across his face, and Souji gave a little smile and nodded. “I will.” He took a deep breath and shifted himself over to lean against a support, snugging his plain haori over his shoulders. Hijikata was watching him carefully, his frown deepening, and finally, Souji scowled and flapped his hand at him. “Quit that, Hijikata-san. You look like you’re going to eat me.”

Hijikata blinked at him, and then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously, taking his weight from his hands to lean forward. “Are you eating?”

Souji sighed and looked away. “I’m not hungry.”

“Souji!”

“I can’t help it if I’m not hungry.” He made a face. “Don’t harass me, Hijikata-san.” Hijikata thinned his lips and looked like he wanted to say something else, but he slowly relaxed back. The frown didn’t leave, and his eyes were accusing. Souji closed his eyes and leaned back against the support. “Tell me, Hijikata-san,” he said, making his voice light and serene. “Have you met any beautiful women lately?”

There was a pause at the change of subject, and then a snort. “If you’d ever been to war, you’d know. There aren’t any beautiful women on the battlefield. Especially not on the losing side.”

“Mm. You’ve been on a losing streak since I left.” Hijikata gave a gusty sigh, and Souji stopped his laugh before it turned into a cough.

There was a long silence, and then Hijikata said quietly, “Get well. We need you, Souji.”

Souji gave a little _hmm_ and didn’t answer, letting the sun’s warmth soak into his skin. He thought about mentioning that Tetsu was a pretty close bet and probably one of the best fighters they had now, if Nakagura and Harada had really left, and then he didn’t. He wondered if there was anyone else who had died that Saito didn’t not-mention. He didn’t want to say any names, because there wasn’t anyone more honest than Hijikata and while he might be able to lie about who was dying, he wouldn’t be able to lie about who was dead, and Souji didn’t want to hear about who of his friends was dead. He didn’t want to know who had died out in the mud and viscera of a battlefield while he slept and sat in the sun and gave his rice to the birds and tried to hold his sword in his weak hands.

He woke later in the dark with all his blankets snugged over his shoulders. A hazy dream about the old dojo slipped away from him, and he started to push himself up, whispering, “Hijikata-san...”

And there was a hand at his shoulder, gently pushing him back down, and Hijikata said, “Rest, Souji.”

“Did I fall asleep while you were talking?” Souji burrowed into the covers, sinking against the pillows and closing his eyes again. Fingertips brushed his hair from his forehead in a ghost-touch, and he murmured sleepily, “I didn’t mean to.”

The palm of Hijikata’s hand pressed against Souji’s hair, and it was warm against his head. “You didn’t,” Hijikata said, his voice soft.

Souji sighed, his cold fingers knotting together beneath the covers. “Hijikata-san,” he breathed, “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”

“Shut up,” Hijikata snapped, his voice a low growl. He curled his fingers into Souji’s hair. “Shut up, Souji.”

“Hijikat--”

“You’re not pathetic,” he said, his voice harsh. He clenched his hand into a fist, pulling at Souji’s hair enough that it hurt a little. “It wouldn’t be honor, Souji, if you came with me now. It wouldn’t be noble.” There was a little pause, and then his voice softened. He pulled his fingers from the little knots they had tangled and smoothed his hand over Souji’s hair. “It would be shame,” he said quietly. “You’ve never run from yourself, Souji. Don’t start now.”

There was a long, quiet moment, and Souji murmured, “Thank you.” Hijikata threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Souji’s neck and pulled his hand back, but he didn’t rise. Souji peered up and could see Hijikata’s shape sitting there beside him, and he gave a little smile and pulled his hand out from under the blankets. He walked his fingers along the floor like a drunken spider, brushing fabric and then over the back of Hijikata’s hand, tapping out a slow, playful rhythm. With a soft grunt, Hijikata’s hand moved, his fingers snatching at Souji’s, and Souji would have given a quiet laugh, except Hijikata was holding his hand like it might turn to smoke. “Hijikata-san,” he whispered, wiggling his fingers in Hijikata’s grasp. “Don’t worry.”

Hijikata shushed him and shifted his grip, pressing the pad of his thumb against Souji’s palm. His fingers were warm, as if he had been cupping his hands over a brazier, and Souji could feel Hijikata’s breath against his fingertips. Neither of them moved for a long time, and Souji drifted into a little doze, lulled by the sounds of the night outside and the feel of someone beside him. He was almost completely asleep when the grip on his hand slackened and there was the gentle brush of lips against his fingers before he was released, his hand pressed to the blankets over his chest.

* * *

Souji slept more, falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon and waking late in the morning. The old household servant, Yoshi, told him it was no trouble, that he shouldn’t worry about anything. Souji thanked him and felt guilty anyway, and he spent his waking hours sitting on the porch, watching the sun slant across the floorboards. He began practicing again, tying his hair up into a long tail and clumsily snugging his hakama around his waist. He moved beneath the slow shade of the tree by the well, gently sliding bare feet over the ground, and Yoshi brought him tea and watched and didn’t fuss at him for being stubborn. Souji’s hands had softened and his fingers were weak, but his grip never wavered, and dappled sunlight shifted over his blade like water. He wondered and worried about Hijikata and Kondo and Tetsu, and when he slept, his dreams were nightmarish and vague.

Once he woke himself coughing, and his fingers were slimed with blood and phlegm. He sat up, shuddering, and his hair was cold and wet against his bare neck, and he could smell blood all over himself. He pulled himself up carefully and felt along the wall in the dark and until he pressed his hands to the shoji doors, and then he rested his forehead against its wooden frame, catching his breath. He could taste blood on the back of his tongue, and he gritted his teeth and slid the doors open.

The night was loud with summer insects, the air sweet with flower-scents, and the moon was bright and full overhead. Souji felt his way along the porch and gently lowered himself to the ground. The dirt felt warm to his bare toes, and when he pressed his hands to the floorboards of the porch, he thought he could feel the sun’s warmth pushing back.

Every night for weeks, Yoshi had drawn a bucket of water from the well before bed and rested it on the well’s rim. Once Souji had asked him about it, and Yoshi had given a self-deprecating laugh and said something about how he hated drawing water in the morning, when his joints were cold and aching. Souji’s fingers met the edge of the bucket and he murmured, “I’m sorry, Yoshi-san.” He spat once off to the side, and then he dipped his hands in and he washed his mouth, spitting and spitting the taste of blood to the ground.

He was pouring handfuls of water over his hair, threading his fingers through clumps of congealing blood, when there was a shrill little cry at his feet. He jumped and stumbled against the well, and a something soft and furred trailed over his foot as he jerked it away. The moonlight caught a pair of eyes, and from the shadows came a plaintive _meow. _An inky-black cat rubbed itself along the stones of the well, giving him a curious look as it stepped back into shadow. Souji blinked and knelt, tucking his wet hair over his shoulder. He held out his hand and whispered, “Hey, kitty,” tching softly.

The cat peered around the edge of the well, dark and formless beneath the moonlight. It gave a little cry again and rubbed its cheek over the hard edge of one of the stones. Souji waved his fingers and made another little reassuring sound. The cat stared unblinkingly at him, and then at his hand. It pressed itself to the dirt and rolled, showing him its belly, and gave him an upside-down look. Souji scooted forward and held his hand out again, his fingers white against all that black, and the cat looked at him and twisted itself into a shape like it was going for a knot, and just as his fingertips brushed its fur, it swiped a paw around at his fingers.

He snatched his hand away, and the cat’s claws grazed his skin in a tickling sting. The cat rolled to its feet and slipped back into the shadows, and Souji watched it disappear, and then he rose and finished washing his hair.

The next morning, he asked Yoshi, who laughed and said he hadn’t seen a cat around in ages, though it could have come looking for food. Yoshi looked at him curiously and asked him when he’d seen this cat, and was he sure it was actually a cat. Souji forced himself to laugh and say maybe it was a dream, even though there was a long scratch along the back of his hand. Later, he searched for the cat, peering beneath the house and under the bushes, but it did not show itself when the sun beat down bright and hot.

* * *

News did not come for a long time. Souji waited and practiced his forms and tried to pace his breathing to his heart. The blossoms fell from the tree before his bedroom, and petals littered the ground for weeks. The birds that ate his rice grew fatter and he tried to tell them apart and he gave them all different names every day. Once, he saw his reflection in the well-bucket: his eyes too big for his face, the lines of his face like dark shadows, and everything else shades of grey.

One morning, Souji woke to muffled voices, and he struggled out of bed and broke into a stumbling run, pulling himself along until he reached the front of the house. He slid the shoji doors open with a breathless _Yoshi-san, _but the messenger was already gone. Yoshi’s eyes went wide when he saw Souji barefoot in his yukata, and he scolded and shooed until Souji gave up and retreated. He pleaded and wheedled, but it wasn’t until he raised his voice out of frustration, his breath hitching with the effort, that Yoshi relented. He told Souji, in a reluctant and slow way, that the news was very sad, and Souji stopped breathing, his chest filled with ice, when the old man told him that Kondo Isami had been beheaded as a traitor.

It was that evening that he stayed out in the yard, pushing himself through form after form, gripping his katana in weak hands and focusing his eyes on its blade alone. He remembered long, long ago, when Hijikata scolded him for crying and made fun of his name and Kondo smiled at him and helped him and said _I’m your big brother now _and taught him things like how to hold a sword and how to command and how to have friends. When he woke later, burning with fever, Yoshi was nearby and told him he’d fainted and pressed a wet cloth to his forehead and said nothing more.

He laid awake and alone in the dark listening to the night and counted his heartbeats, a hand pressed to his chest, his fingers splayed wide. He wondered if Hijikata knew, if that same messenger had come from somewhere north, sent at someone’s order. He wondered if Hijikata still had something to fight for, if Kondo was dead, and he regretted that he did not ask Hijikata to make him a promise too, that he didn’t insist and link a finger with his and say, _Swear to me I’ll see you again, and you can’t lie. _He didn’t think Hijikata would have sworn, not with his ideas of honor and duty and_ pride pride pride_, but he really didn’t think there was anyone who could keep an unmade promise. He began to wonder when someone would come to take the trophy of his head, his sword. He wondered which lord’s men would claim the honor.

And then one afternoon, a demon came.

Souji woke hearing his name, starting up from where he dozed in a bright spot of sunshine on the porch, his feet tucked up in his hakama. The summer afternoon was thick around him, the air humid and singing with insects. He was alone. His katana wasn’t beside him, but the doors to the bedroom were open, and he peered down the porch, calling, “Yoshi-san?”

There was a soft pattering like tiny feet behind him, and he twisted to look; the open bedroom was dark beyond the doors, the shadows like curtains. Something stirred inside, and as he watched, a sinuous black tail curled around the door. The tail slipped back inside the room, and golden eyes appeared and the cat gave a pleading meow. Souji studied the cat, his eyes narrowed, and he murmured, “You...”

There was a clatter from around the corner, and Souji turned away from the cat and frowned, pushing himself to his feet slowly. “Yoshi-san?” he called again, more softly this time.

In a tangle of limbs, Yoshi fell into sight, his hands clutching at his throat. He hit the floor hard and jerked, blood smearing around him as his legs churned. Souji cried out and ran forward, his eyes on the old servant’s bloody hands, the slash across his age-spotted neck, his expression of shock and fear. There was a low laugh, and Souji jerked to a stop, his tabi sliding on the floorboards, as a young man in black stepped over Yoshi’s body, the long tails of his coat trailing across bloody skin. The sword he carried was slick with fresh blood.

“As I live and breathe,” he said, a slow smile curling his lips as he came forward through the porch’s stretching shadows. “If it isn’t the marvelous Okita-sama.” He stopped and lifted his sword, giving it an idle look, and he wiped it carefully on his coat. “Pardon my intrusion.”

Souji’s hand met the hard corner of a support behind him, and he eased himself off the porch and took a step back into the sunlight. “Who are you?” he heard himself say, his mind already moving to his swords in the bedroom. He started to move his feet, darting a look over his shoulder, and then the man started to laugh again, and Souji snapped back to attention.

“Me?” He pressed a painted nail to his lips, making a mou. “I’m no one.” His katana reflected the mad glitter in his eyes, and he looked up through long eyelashes at Souji and then he shifted and Souji saw that in his other hand he held a skull, stained black and polished to a smooth sheen. “No one,” he murmured, and his voice was a purr.

He raised his katana and dove forward, its blade catching the sunlight in an arc of blinding white, and Souji ducked and ran, his hand over his mouth as dust rose around his feet. He heard the katana connect with the support with a crack, and he darted a quick look over his shoulder to see its blade embedded deeply in the wood. His attacker was smiling at him over its gleaming edge and in the light, his eyes were sunset-red. Souji scrambled back onto the porch and ran for the bedroom, hauling himself along by the shoji doors. He was panting when he finally touched his katana, his breath catching wetly in his throat, and he forced himself to cough against his sleeve, turning to spit a thick glob of blood to the floor.

Long nails trailed over the back of his neck, and Souji jerked away, wheeling as he slid his katana from its sheath with a metallic ring. His attacker met his katana with his sheath, holding it one-handed. “Oh?” he murmured. “I thought you were a demon, Okita-sama.” He leaned close and breathed, “How disappointing.” He pressed himself forward, and Souji gave a furious growl as his feet slid back, his legs trembling with exertion. His rear heel brushed the edge of the wall and he snapped back, jerking his katana from his attacker’s sheath. He crouched and braced himself on one knee and slashed up and across the man’s middle, but his katana met nothing but cloth.

There was a laugh in the room’s semi-darkness, further away than it should have been, and across the bright strip of dying sunlight in the middle of the room, Souji focused on the dark smudges of his attacker’s coat, the lines of his white hakama. Dizziness washed over him, and his shoulders met the wall behind him and he pressed his free hand to his mouth, his breathing ragged.

“Like a child, Okita-sama,” the man said. “I should have come when you were stronger.” He trailed his katana over the tatami mats, and its blade reflected rippling light from the shadows like water. Souji watched him through narrowed eyes, his chest aching as he struggled to catch his breath. “When you were the strongest,” he murmured, giving a slow smile.

“Is this--” Souji caught himself, swallowing back something that was thick and tasted like rust, and tried again. “Is this honor, what you’re doing? Pride?” He flattened his back against the wall and tried to push himself up.

“Mmm...no,” the man said, his voice slow and soft. “Honor? No.” He lifted his other hand--that skull--and pressed it to the hollow of his neck. “I have no need for honor or pride,” he purred, showing his teeth in a smile. “This is vengeance. This is hate.” His eyes widened in a mocking look. “Wouldn’t Okita-sama rather know why? Which of your friends are dead at my hands?” The façade dropped, and he smiled again, looking at Souji through his long eyelashes. “The list is growing.”

“I don’t care,” Souji choked out. He struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall, and when he looked, there were bloody handprints streaked behind him. He spat blood to the side again and faced his opponent, settling into a stance.

The man lifted a hand to his mouth and laughed again. “You don’t want to play?” Souji tensed his muscles and drew a steady breath and didn’t answer, and he saw a glitter of teeth in the darkness as his attacker whispered, “Come on, then.”

Something changed in the air as Souji moved, his katana ready, and then the man’s form wavered like smoke, or a reflection on water, and there was only darkness in his place. Souji checked his thrust, catching himself before he fell, and he backed away, his breath coming faster and more ragged. A hand snaked out from behind him, and fingers slid over his nose and mouth and dragged him back, long fingernails pressing into his cheek, and there was a line of lean strength against his back and a low voice at his ear. “Okita-sama’s forgotten how to breathe, hasn’t he?” Souji could hear the smile in his voice, that edge of something prickling and wrong, and he gagged as blood slipped down his throat, making a weak sound against the crush of that burning hand.

Souji thrashed and twisted, changing his grip on his katana as he turned it and thrust backward along the line of his side, as though he was sheathing it. There was another breathless laugh as his attacker stepped away, sliding his hand from Souji’s face to knot in hair, jerking Souji’s head back to bare his neck. There was the sing and flash of a blade somewhere out of his line of sight, and Souji dropped; he ignored a beat of white-hot pain as a lock of hair tore from his scalp and he hit the tatami mats hard with his knees and he slashed up and across and his katana caught the sunset light and it gleamed red-orange and there was blood and blood and blood.

He was coughing and coughing, collapsed onto his arms, and blood soaked his sleeves as he heaved. His hands were burning with the feel of it, pressed to his mouth as if to a wound. He thought that maybe he was bleeding everywhere, from his eyes, his nose. He fell and choked, and the mats were warm and slick against his face.

“Well met,” came a soft voice from over his head. He drew a wet, rattling breath and turned his face and looked up, blood in his eyelashes. His attacker was leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to his stomach. Blood spread over the folds of his white hakama like flowers, and his hand was wet, his fingers curled into the wound. “Well met,” he said again. His face was a hazy shape close to the ceiling, and his voice was everywhere, swimming in the darkness like it was water.

There was a rustle as his attacker eased to his feet, moving slowly on the bloody mats and with could have been a hiss of pain far above him, he stepped away with a whispered, “Goodbye, Okita-sama.” Souji focused on the mat in front of his face and drew a painful breath. He did not crack the blood coating his lips, did not reply.

**Author's Note:**

> According to Shimozawa's _Shinsengumi Shimatsuki_, Okita Souji died after an attempt to kill a black cat. My canon comes from [Shinsengumi!](http://wiki.d-addicts.com/Shinsengumi), [Bakumatsu Kikansetsu Irohanihoheto](http://myanimelist.net/anime.php?id=1576) and [Because Goodbyes Are Coming Soon](http://myanimelist.net/manga.php?id=4307), and, you know, Peacemaker Kurogane and a dash of actual history for flavor.


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